


Toxic

by Zaikyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Getem, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Obsession, Ratings: R, Self Harm, possessive!lucifer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 01:45:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaikyo/pseuds/Zaikyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam wants the devil out of his head, the devil wants Sam dead. Neither of them realize just how toxic they are to one another, how life altering. Something's got to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silica

**Author's Note:**

> Set in season 7, short introduction chapter. Enjoy!

 

 _"No matter how many times that you told me you wanted leave_  
No matter how many breaths that you took you still couldn't breathe  
No matter how many nights that you'd lie wide awake to the sound of the poison rain  
  
Where did you go?  
Do you really want  
Do you really want me  
Do you really want me dead or alive?  
To torture for my sins?"  
-Hurricane- 30 Seconds to Mars

**Chapter I: Silica**

 

Darkness, encased in silence.

Hollowness. Empty space, dragging out towards nothing.

A shadow.

 

 

A voice.

 

 

 _"Here, Sammy Sammy. Heeere, Sammy Sammy."_  
  
  
  
Just like that, the brunette was ejected from his dream world by a gripping, heart attack force that surged through his being and ravaged his insides to the deepest surfaces.  
  
With a sharp intake of breath, he sat up. Gelid beads of sweat sloped down every inch of him and yet, the gathering of droplets barely did the burning inside him justice. He felt like fire, like his blood was made of the stuff, just licking at his skin from the inside, waiting for everything to burst.  
  
Sam knew just as well, the odds were against that. His heart would sooner give out or even break through his skin, he was sure, and the consistent bashing of the muscle against the inside of his chest made that factor apparent and real. No, spontaneous combustion was more of an angel-demon handiwork and it was obvious that neither one of those sides were exactly ready to have him axed just yet. Not with all the spoils of purgatory roaming free and proactive all of the sudden.  
  
He shuddered out at dry breath, dragging his hands against the whole of his face roughly. He just wanted sleep. Dreamless, fearless, Devil-less sleep. He wanted the prophetical darkness inside his mind to find a corner and stay there. Or better yet, leave.

  
_"Now Sammy, you know I can't do that."_

  
They were amused and dangerous, those words. And if Sam were any normal human being, he probably would have kissed the reaper's ring and left the world for good at the hands of a stroke then and there, instead of just seizing from the friction riddled chills that darted across his skin mercilessly. He looked around in exasperation.

  
 _"Silly, silly, Sammy."_  God how those words dragged together in a sick, singsongy fashion.  _"I'm in your noggin, sweetie. You can't see me unless you_  want _to see me."_

  
But Sam didn't want to see anything. Not s damn thing. Especially not an identity crisis angel with fucking daddy issues.  
  
And you know Sam thought about that. About if that were  _really_ the case, the idea that there had to be a desire for Lucifer to appear, then Sam would have never jumped right then with the force of what seemed like a lethal volt of electric pulse when a metallic cold brushed across his forearm in the shape of fingers. If that were _really_  the case, his neck wouldn't have almost snapped at the speed he whipped his head around to lock gazes with the smirking Devil. If that were  _really_  the case, he would never have to spare another glance at those untempered eyes like he was right now.

  
But that just wasn't the case.

  
"Hello, Sam. Lovely evening, isn't it?" There was genuine twitch in his- dear Nick's lips that to Sam, was the quickest way to taste bile. Everything about the Devil's smile twisted wrenching knots in his stomach because everything Lucifer found pleasure in, amusement in, happiness in, was sick and twisted all its own. Everything about this- _freak_ \- was joy, lined in bitter malice, coated in silica. The perfect killer pillm really.

  
  
 _"Get out._ " Sam was sure it came off just like it sounded. Pathetic, like a fucking kid, he thought. Prepubescent and unsure, like he was asking a girl to the junior prom. He turned his head from the Devil in an attempt to save himself some embarrassment and grief.  
  
Lucifer let the corners of his mouth fall. "Sammy, I'm hurt. I thought you loved out little heart to hearts." There was a light wisp of air across the surface of Sam's neck and then he felt it; the distinct creeping of those eerily chilled fingers across the exposed skin. They were silent, practically without impact. Oh, but he felt them. Felt them ghost along the strained curve just under his ear, and then back around to where his hairline began, causing strands to stand at involuntary attention. Sam jerked away.  
  
"Get _out._ " It was full this time. Forced, but lacking in any detectable self doubt. That is, unless you were Lucifer, emotion reader extraordinaire. His ability to smell fear out and back its pretty face into a corner was something you could say the Devil relished. He let his eyes fall as the corners of his mouth lifted again in an ugly sort of arrogant pensiveness.  
  
"Sam, _I know you_." He replaced his hand on the brunette's neck, trailing along the sweat plastered warmth slowly, sweetly. All the muscles in Sam immediately coiled into tense gatherings, constricting most in his arms and legs as his natural defense to thrash out against the threat made itself apparent.  
  
But he didn't jerk away this time. God, Sam knew he should. Should swat his hand away, should get up and run as far as his strength would take him, should call out for Dean, for anyone who might hear him. He knew Lucifer's touch should repulse him to an unfathomable extent, way beyond the comprehension of own churning stomach.  
  
But it didn't. Christ it didn't. And Sam knew it in his throat. Whether it be that he were still back in the pit, occupying his position as Lucifer's eternal bitch boy, or that this was really just the elaborate hallucinogenic product of his oh-so fucked up mind, Sam wanted this; wanted to be here. With the Devil outlining imaginary sigils into skin absentmindedly. With his fingers dancing over him rhythmically, leaving tiny eruptions of bright chills every which way, melting a deep burning through and past raging streams of blood, all the way into his core. It torched him, as well as every moral and belief his character was built on. It set fire to his soul in a tangled, tortured mess. But  _why?_

  
"Because I'm apart of you, Sam."  
  
It came so thickly simple. Like the words were swallowed in black oil.

  
"We were once one. One body, one entity. You signed yourself over to me when you said yes. Did you really think that stopping the apocalypse would change that?" Lucifer brushed the stray hairs that covered the side of Sam's head and leaned in closely, lips barely an inch from his exposed ear. Sam took in a sharp breath and held it, refusing to give into the all kinds of wrong he knew was clawing its way to the surface.

  
"I'm going to let you in on a little secret," the Devil whispered, way too close, much too personal.  
  
"As long as you're still breathing, I'll be right here, inside you. The soundtrack to your miserable life. Your own personal on the go cell mate. And no amount of fairy dust or Latin poetry will ever change that."  
  
He smirked." I'm here until the day you die, buddy-boy. To twist,"  
  
A hand gripped itself around Sam's wrist jerkingly.  
  
"and bend,"  
  
A painful yank at his flesh and a groan of split second agony.  
  
"and break you, until you wither into a battered heap of what you thought you once were. And then?" Lucifer released Sam's wrist and the boy took to coddling it in his other hand, sucking his teeth reflexively.  
  
 _"I'll kill you."_  
  
It was heavy. Each word seemed to be weighed down by something grave and unforgiving. An indelible stain on Sam's ear. He wanted to scratch it off, to throw the words back in the Devils face and tell him he wasn't afraid of death.  
  
But he was. Ever since he had been to Hell and back, death had become a taboo shadow in the bright light of day. Death was everywhere, taking everything Sam knew and cared for, bit by bit. And someday, death was going to take him too. Knowing how and by whom, it didn't make the thought any lighter.

  
"Just... just kill me now, you son of a bitch."  
  
There was a brief pause as if Lucifer were actually considering it and then a low, humorless chuckle. "Now Sammy, where's the creativity in that?" He removed himself from Sam's personal space and stood, facing the wall behind them, looking past the wooden paneling, far off to somewhere no one else could ever hope to find.

 

  
"Nah.

 

I want to watch you squirm, Sam. I want you to  _beg_  for death."  
  
  
There was a quiet rustle of invisible feathers, and then the Devil was gone.

 


	2. Mercury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the light of day, nothing is safe, nothing is safe, nothing is safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two, split into two parts due to timing issues. Enjoy! <3

 

_As soon as you came in_

_All the beasts went away_

_They noticed that you were warm_

_Wait ‘til you leave_

_Then come back for more_

_The ropes hang_

_To keep us all awake_

_And I should’ve known_

_It’s still the same song_

_-Deathblow, Deftones_

 

**Chapter II: Mercury (Part 1)**

 

 

The leather upholstery underneath Sam's jeans made a quiet, muffled sound as he shifted his weight to the side, pressing his forehead a little firmer onto slick coolness of the glass window. A small breeze escaped from the crack at the top and skidded across Sam's skin like light, playful kisses. A small curve of his lips grew, just slightly.

  
It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was day.  
  
Looking through the invisible wall between himself and the outside, Sam took note of every detail that flashed before him. Every pine and oak standing at reluctant attention, far apart from one another with droopy branches and dry, cracked trunks and leaves that honestly looked a little _too_ green. He made a mental note of every patch of dirt that sat purposelessly in the midst of a sea of yellow-brown shaggy grass that he was sure went on for an impressionable forever  He paid close attention to every small, feather-white puff in the murky sky, however few and far between there were. He even took a special notice of that bright bead of fire and heat trailing behind him.  The Oklahoma sun was cruel, and hot enough to beat a good man down if he stood in its wake long enough. But Sam didn't mind. Even as the heat magnified though the seats of the Impala and burned a great "screw you" into his thighs, he still couldn't care less.  
  
It was daytime. He was awake. And Dean was beside him.

  
Dean, with his intense stare forward and never ending, rhythmless tapping of fingers on the steering wheel. Like the sound of drilling after a while, really. It was a stupid mannerism he'd never been able to shake in silences like these. And it was the best solid thing Sam knew would never change, no matter what sadistic mindfuck the devil threw at him.  
  
And that was all the godsend he could really ask for.  
  
Another breeze shot past his face hurriedly and Sam felt his shoulders tense, just a little, as  the curve of his lips quickly thinned into a tight line.  
  
It hadn't come from outside like before. Sam knew it, or maybe he didn't. Or maybe, he was just becoming a paranoid mess of something pathetic and useless. He would swear on his mother's grave it was just a little too cold, just a bit too harsh to be real wind. But he'd also give just about anything he had not to have to believe it.  
  
And so he didn't.  
  
Sam leaned into the window as far as he could push his body, forcibly reassuring himself the action had nothing to do with fear, that he was just tired from all the not-sleeping he'd been doing lately. But even then, he knew he was relying on the support of a car door more than he really should. More than anyone who wasn't afraid of something reaching out and grabbing them at any second should. Like pressing way too hard into a hug that was only meant to be something casual. Really, who was he really kidding?  
  
Not himself.  
  
Because he knew, even in the blinding light of day, Lucifer was still the shadow that stretched out longer and wider than anything anyone would ever feel safe standing under. And God, if Sam wasn't right in the center of it.  
  
He closed his eyes, finally feeling the hefty weight of another sleepless night on every inch of his body, weighing the option of slumber on an invisible scale. Risk finding Lucifer buried deep in some unmarked corner of his ugly subconscious in exchange for a few semi-decent hours of rest, or lie awake in a paranoid apnea for God knows how long.  
  
Decision wasn't as hard as Sam would've like to imagine it should've been and he opted for the former, reluctantly allowing a numbing darkness to begin to swallow him whole, while drumming fingers became the only thing left separating his brain from the entirety of his sleep realm. They too though soon disappeared into a background thrumming that eventually became sheer and utter silence.  
  
  
He should've asked. Fuck he should've asked. I mean hell, it's not like he didn't plan on it. Of course he planned on it. But why _hadn't_ he? He could have, ten times over already. Perfect opportunity in a car full of that awkward sticky silence he hated so much. The kind that was riddled with unsaid thoughts and obvious tells of not-fine-ness. He could've broken it, said a less than apathetic "You okay?" and felt better about things.  
  
But even then, no. He wouldn't have felt better. Christ if he didn't know Sammy like anything else, all he would've gotten back from the guy would've been a bold face "I'm fine," lie. That for sure wasn't good enough, but not asking wasn't so effective either.  
  
Dean had been teetering on the lines of Sam's sanity for sometime now, ever since he'd gone code berserk at that warehouse weeks ago. Hell could give you serious shell-shock, no one knew that better than Dean. Couple it with some good, solid months of running around soulless and you've got yourself a nice crazy cocktail. Which would be somewhat okay, if Sam ever mentioned two words about it, instead of jerking about every six seconds like he's got some sort of seizure thing going on.  
  
It was fucking horrifying, Dean would admit it if not out loud then at least to himself. He was scared. Scared his brother had lost what little sanity they'd managed to scrap out and cling to over the years. Scared he'd finally given into something dark and sinister and merciless, or was planning on it anyway.  
  
Dean was just genuinely scared. And rightfully so.  
  
When Sammy woke up, he would ask him. He wouldn't take "I'm fine" or "It's nothing" or even "Talk about it later." Something was horribly wrong and Dean knew it in the whole of his gut, along with the eerie notion that it wasn't just any something he could pour salt over and banish away. Whatever it was came from Sam. And that might just be the worst threat of any possible.  
  
  
The taste of salt. A warmth that was too personal to be miles away in the sky. Something heavy and familiar poking at his nostrils.  
  
Sam awoke to pasty humid air and gasoline, a shock akin to the one his brother gave him when a half open fist hit his shoulder. Sam's eyes jerked open.  
  
"Hey, bathroom or what?"  
  
It was a general question that could only have one of two answers and yet Sam could only stare mindlessly at nothing while he processed the fact that yes, he _did_ have a bladder oh, and it hadn't been emptied for several hours.  
  
He focused in on the grayscale surroundings of a shabby gas station about him. Next to the door of the convinience store an elderly woman in a blue vest had her fingers curled around a cigarette, casually looking down at her shoes like The Times were scribbled on them somewhere. Next to her a newspaper bin, a garbage man, another newspaper bin, and two cars; one with a man attending its tank, a small pump in hand. The other assumably belonging to the woman.  
  
"Hey," Sam turned towards Dean. "How long've we been driving?"  
  
It wasn't an answer to Dean's question at all.  
  
"I don't know, six, maybe seven hours. Point?"  
  
The point was that was six or seven hours, Lucifer-free. Six or seven hours of blissful nothingness, beautiful silence. Fuck Sam couldn't even recall a single dream, devil-made or otherwise. Could it be safe to call that progress? Or maybe just an eerie calm before the storm? Either way, it was a rest. And Sam would be an idiot not to take that as it was.  
  
"Dude, the hell?"  
  
He looked back at Dean who was clearly one blank stare into space away from a less than friendly fist-to-jaw reunion.  
  
"Right, bathroom. Actually yeah, I'm gonna go. You want anything?"  
  
He was opening the door and stepping out onto the pavement before Dean could get a sarcastic retort out.  
  
It was even muggier outside, and hotter too. The sun was teetering directly overhead and Sam could swear he felt each pulse of heat run over him individually.  
  
Something about being well rested brought life and acuteness back to his senses and Sam felt more or less like himself again.  
  
A few quick strides across empty pumps and he was at the transparent door of the store, where the woman standing near it made an attention grabbing sound in her throat. Sam turned as she took another drag of her cigarette before tilting a suspicious eye in his direction.  
  
"Aye." She motioned her hand at the store behind her. "Don't steal nothin'."  
  
He really didn't know what to say to that, which was fine, because the woman only turned back to her intense shoe-staring which left Sam to be on his way.  
  
He found the bathroom in the back, easily, and took his time with his business. This memory-less gap in time was new for Sam. Even before Lucifer's almost nightly visits to his dreams, Sam had always found _something_ to dream about. Alistair, Yellow Eyes, Lilith; his dreams were never exactly quiet.  
All the more reason for this to be eerie in its most basic sense. And in a way it was to Sam. But in a quiet way, one that was easily pushed to the far corners of his mind.  
  
Twisting the faucet handle. he dipped his hands in icy water and splashed his face a few times. It felt invigorating, electric. And somehow, it took any doubts Sam had and ran them down the drain with the everything else. Things were great. He was great.  
  
  
"You piss like a girl." Dean fired in way too serious a tone.  
  
Sam fought back an adolescent eye roll and slid into the passenger seat of the Impala and shut the door. "How far from the case site?"  
  
Dean turned and craned his neck towards a sign just across the street.  
  
"'Bout eighty miles, give or take. Should be there around six."  
  
"Huh, kind of early for us, don't you think?"  
  
Dean gave him that famous wry smirk of his. "That's what happens when the women in the car keep quiet and let the men drive."  
  
Sam furrowed his brows. "I honestly don't know why you think you're funny."  
  
The elder's smile disappeared and he turned to start the car. "You're the one who isn't funny.."  
  
"Right."  
  
The Impala made her steady crawl in reverse before shifting gears to pull out of the station. They were on the street in a few seconds and Sam leaned his head onto window again, this time more out of contentedness than anything else.  
  
But something alarmingly wrong caught his eye in the glassy reflection and Sam swung his head around sharply to look back at whatever it was skewing the place they had just been.  
  
A quick glance behind and the station hadn't changed at all. Everything was still its original rustic gray scale design that it had been from the moment they'd arrived. Same shoddy pumps, same little convenience store off to the side.  
  
But for some reason it looked much quieter than when they'd been there. Not that it was ever exactly a party but...  
  
Things just looked off, and empty, and so stupidly wrong.  
  
And Sam quickly came to the realization of why.  
  
That little slant in the picture frame that was nagging at him so much was right at the very tip of his tongue.  
  
  
This gas station was as vacant as disturbingly possible.  
  
  
There were no people there.  
  
  
  
For thirty minutes not a word was spoken. Sam was at a mental tear between believing in the interaction he'd had with the woman back at the station, and accepting the fact that he'd completely made her up and that _contrary_ to his initial belief, that parking lot was as empty when the came as it was when they left.  
  
He wasn't insane. He really wasn't. His eyes might be a little off kilter today, but he wasn't crazy.  
  
Confirmation was what Sam needed. A second set of eyes to conform or deter his belief in his own brain. And he could get it, if only he'd open his mouth. But no matter what the answer on the other side of that question might be, asking about it made him sound crazy. And that wasn't a conversation he wanted to have with his brother for another good part of an hour.  
  
Things were fine. He was fine.  
  
Maybe this was just another side effect of Lucifer's nightly mind fucks. Sleepiness, irritability, and blatant hallucinations. It made sense. The Devil only bothered Sam when he was asleep. It was only logical that he'd have made an impact on Sam's brain strong enough to carry over into the daylight to fuck with him there too.  
  
That Satan was an efficient kind of guy; killing two Sam's with one stone.  
  
But how was he supposed to live like this? Not knowing what was real over what wasn't seemed like something people would definitely get locked up over. Not exactly where Sam wanted to be.  
  
He hunched his shoulders over himself in a weird comforting sort of gesture, something he'd always done when things turned grim and hopeless. Another habit that couldn't be shaken.  
  
And then Sam realized: That had to be the key right? The things the Devil could never replicate; the way Bobby grunted at the stupid jokes Dean made and the obnoxious finger tapping thing Dean seemed to never cease. Those were the things, the little itty bitty things that could keep Sam just that much further from the edge of crazy. The stupid mundane things that nobody cared about because they'd just become apart of the ebb and flow of everything "normal." If Sam could hold onto those things, he could hold onto his head.  
  
It was a reassuring revelation that swept over Sam's entire being and he gripped onto it as if it were pure fact, written in the densest of stone. Even if it wasn't true, it made him feel better, safer.  
  
Those stupid things that never changed.  
  
Sam shut his eyes as he let his ears lean into the sound of his brother next to him. The solidness of him. Dean's breathing. Dean's heartbeat. Dean's fingers.  
  
Dean's fingers. Dragging across the steering wheel softly, quietly..  
  
Dragging.  
  
Absentmindedly, methodically..  
  
Dragging.  
  
Rhythmically, continuously..  
  
 _Dragging._  
  
  
 _Dragging._  
  
It was the softest sound Dean had probably ever made in his life. And it chilled everything in Sam to a painful temperature.  
  
Dean wasn't soft. Dean wasn't quiet. Dean didn't _drag his fingers_. Ever. He incessantly banged them to whatever inaudible, rhythm-less rhythm that was playing on that Dean-only radio station in his brain.  
  
And at first it almost didn't make sense to Sam why this new act of weirdly caressing the steering wheel made him so panic stricken and angry.  
  
Because this was still Dean he was sitting next to. Still his brother who looked the same and sounded the same and _was_ the same.  
  
But then again it wasn't. And Sam knew it.  
  
  
This was a lie.  
  
Dean was a lie.  
  
  
"Stop the car." It was sporadic and shaken and unsure but dammit if he didn't mean it.  
  
Dean glanced over at him. "Dude, what're you talking about? We're on the freaking highway-"  
  
"Stop the fucking car!"  
  
"Alright, alright!" Everything began to slow as the Impala moved off the road and fell into a reluctant halt. Dean cut the engine before turning to give Sam the glare of a lifetime.  
  
"What the hell is your problem?"  
  
"What have you done with Dean!?"  
  
Dean didn't bother to mask the sharp contortion of his features. "Dude, what the _fuck_ are you talking about? _I'm_ Dean! Who else could I be?"  
  
Sam rammed a forearm into his chest, pressing his brother in a compromising position between the seat and himself. "You know exactly who!"  
  
And if Dean's lungs weren't desperately groping for any sign of the oxygen they'd just been robbed of, he might've objected.  
  
"Get out of my head!" Sam pressed harder into Dean's chest, his elbow catching at Dean's throat. "Get the fuck out!"  
  
It was such an ugly sight, to watch the Devil cough and wretch and shake with his brother's face on. It was honestly sickening.  
  
And God, why was the devil _choking_? Why was this fake Dean choking _so fucking much?_ There was no need, no point in the charade. But he kept it up like the greatest actor Sam had ever seen.  
  
So well it almost couldn't be an act.  
  
Sam let up his pressure-hold just enough for his brother to catch a phantom of a breath. Something about the way Dean's body came instantly to life was just too real. Everything about his breathing was shallow and pathetic and so wrong.  
  
Devils didn't choke. Hallucinations didn't choke. But Deans? Deans definitely did.  
  
And that tore Sam.  
  
  
Dean coughed until words were even a little bit audible.  
  
"Sammy... Sammy please." It was taking everything in him not to just fall into hyperventilation. "You gotta listen to me, man! I'm real. This is real. You gotta believe that!"  
  
And Sam did. Oh God did Sam believe it. Dean's voice. Dean's face. Dean's eyes so heartbreakingly pleading. He believed it.  
  
"Dean, Dean oh _God_ Dean. God oh my God Dean..."  
  
It wasn't coherent or intelligible or the least bit sane, but somehow under all the mindless babbling Dean could find Sam's sincere sobriety. Or at least Sam would like to think so by the way his brother wrapped his arms around his back and held him like he was five again.  
  
Dean, Dean I'm so... Oh God, Dean.."  
  
"It's okay Sam... It's all okay, I promise."  
  
He squeezed Sam even harder, though it was no reassurance to him at all. Sam couldn't let it be. Had he really just attacked the closest person in his miserable social-less life over the mindless motion of his fingers?  
  
Maybe he was insane.  
  
"Dean," he was still trying to force something out. "Dean I'm so sorry- I don't know what's wrong with me I just..."  
  
"I know Sammy, I know. We just need to get you help, okay?" He paused for a millisecond, though it felt more like an hour in their little corner of the car. "We're gonna fix this."  
  
Arms released themselves around Sam, allowing him to look dead at Dean, right into those eyes that always said way too much when Dean couldn't control them.  
  
They looked hurt, but a deeper hurt than Sam had ever known his brother capable of. And he knew it was his fault. Knew he couldn't take back what he'd just done.  
  
One more strike against team trust.  
  
Dean rubbed his hands against his brows, attempting to uncrinkle the features that he knew were frozen in an ugly reflection of pain.  
  
"Let's just get back on the road. We'll sort this out on our way back, yeah?"  
  
It sounded too much like begging for Sam's heart not to tear just that much more.  
  
"Yeah... Yeah okay."  
  
It was all he could say.  
  
  
A hand reached out and squeezed Sam's shoulder gently and Dean looked at him with an almost apologetic half smile before turning back to the steering wheel and twisting the key in the ignition.  
  
The Impala started noisily and a familiar hum of vibrations crawled under Sam, settling a small bit of his prickling tensions.  
  
It was an almost comforting moment, almost enough to break Sam's guard down completely.  
  
But all too quickly, it disappeared and left Sam in a strange stillness.  
  
He looked over at Dean, who had pulled the key completely from the ignition and let it fall from his hand onto the floor beneath.  
  
"Dean?"  
  
A moment of silence, and then Dean exhaled a dragging breath. He tightened his fingers around the head of the steering wheel and looked down at his shoes like they were something fascinating.  
  
A motion that Sam found eerily familiar.  
  
"You know Sam, you're right."  
  
His voice was low, lower than it had ever been, even at Dean's worst.  
  
He looked up and over at Sam, right into Sam's questioning eyes.  
  
"You're right about everything.  
  
  
I'm not Dean."  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
At first, Sam was stunned. Too shocked to react when Dean lunged for him, held down his wrists, straddled his waist. Too confused to really understand what it meant, what any of this meant.  
  
But the sharp pain of fingernails digging into the skin of his wrists brought back some of the coherency he'd lost. He shook, and thrashed, and writhed under not-Dean's weight. But it was like he was suddenly a man made of led. One who wasn't going anywhere until he felt like it.  
  
Dean smiled wildly above him, eyes latching onto everything that Sam was laid out before him, sparkling with a sickening gleam.  
  
"You're too easy, Sam," Dean cooed. "For a bit I thought you had me. Who knew you paid so much attention to big brother that you'd notice a little mannerism like that?" His eyes lowered as a small smirk played up his borrowed features. "Doesn't matter though. You'd believe anything big brother says, wouldn't you?"  
  
It was crap. This whole thing was crap. Lucifer was parading around as Dean this whole time. Who even knew where the actual Dean was now? Probably back at Bobby's house, wondering where the fuck Sam had been all day with his car. Apparently, he'd been crossing the country with the devil at the wheel.  
  
And it was just _so fucking wrong_. Sam knew he shouldn't be so easily deceived, but hell, what could he do when Satan was wearing his brother's face?  
  
It made Sam nauseous. More so than he would ever care to be.  
  
"Get the hell away from me."  
  
Fake-Dean made a noise in his throat, a lot like a laugh, as if Sam's demand was just something hilarious.  
  
"If only it were that easy, Sammy boy. You see, there's something I just can't seem to understand."  
  
He released one of Sam's wrists to trail newly chilled fingers over the softness of Sam's cheek.  
  
And dear Sam, how he struggled with everything he had to move that unbound arm. But some invisible force held it there, and he soon realized that the body on top of him was really just a show. Lucifer didn't need a thing to keep him right where he was.  
  
"What I don't understand," he continued, taking in every pore and hair with the pads of his fingers that Sam's cheek had to offer as he did, "is _why_ you trust _him_ so easily? You set _me_ free. You were _my_ true vessel. We wouldn't even be here if you'd have said yes, Sam."  
  
Those same fingers fell sweetly to his neck and cupped one side. Then the other arm released itself from Sam's wrist and rested against its opposite.  
  
"I just don't understand, Sam"  
  
And then he squeezed.  
  
He wrapped his fingers around Sam's neck and squeezed like everything he ever wanted rode on how many colors he could paint the fleshy canvas. Not enough pressure to completely crush his windpipe, but more than enough to kill him after a few minutes or so like that.  
  
Sam struggled.  
  
"I would have given you everything. Everything you wanted and more."  
  
Squeezing, squeezing, harder, tighter...  
  
"But then again, I guess that just wasn't enough for a Winchester, was it?"  
  
Sam was on the verge of blacking out when the grip around him released.  
  
Sweet, sweet air, and Sam hacked every bit of it in possible.  
  
"Lucifer!" he breathed.  
  
The face above his grew in amusement. "Please. _Call me Dean_."  
  
And then, without warning, he kissed him.  
  
Unexpected and hard, Dean-Lucifer kissed Sam with what felt like all the purpose in the world. Warm, rough lips latched on to Sam and wouldn't let go. His brothers lips. Which was supposed to be a whole mountain full of wrong.  
  
But Sam didn't move. And in a split second of alarming thoughts, he hoped to _God_ it was just another bit of the Devils paralysis working over him.  
  
This wasn't Dean. Draped over him like a human blanket, this _wasn't_ Dean.  
  
And Sam tried his hardest to make that mean something.  
  
A whirlwind of thoughts swarmed angrily around his brain for much too long a time because fuck, Lucifer was still kissing him. And for a second Sam thought that was the worst he could really do.  
  
Until a cool sensation swept over his left arm, followed by a shocking sting that reminded him of all those times he'd had to bleed for a sigil or a spell...  
  
There was a knife at his arm. Cold and metallic and real; poking at the surface of his skin playfully. It sent chills up Sam's spine.  
  
Lucifer released Sam's mouth after _ages_ of contact and he smiled, almost arrogantly really. Sam, unable to move his neck at all anymore, strained his eyes to look down his body at the shiny piece of metal in his fake brother's hand. It wasn't too long, but not all that small either. Kind of wide, thin, but durable. Easily a carving tool.  
  
It moved about his arm slowly, caressing the hairs of Sam's skin as gingerly as possible; prodding a little harder every now and then. It looked almost like the devil were tracing lines onto him.  
  
Lines, and points of entry.  
  
Sam's eyes widened. He wouldn't. He _wouldn't._  
  
A sudden burning sting told him otherwise.  
  
It started from just below the inside of his elbow, slowly and steadily working it's way further upwards towards Sam's shoulder blade, cutting just the surface of his skin as it went. Sam could feel the contrast of cold metal and warm, sticky blood over his arm and winced. It was pain, but he could take it.  
  
Lucifer drug the blade back down, paralleling his original cuts almost perfectly.  
  
"I want this to hurt." There was hardly any emotion in it at all.  
  
"I want you to feel every moment of it."  
  
Sam scoffed through gripped teeth. "Go back to hell, asshole."  
  
And that was bold. Much too bold.  
  
A quick slash across his arm, and then another, and another. It felt like the Devil was making perfect x's into him.   
  
Sam made a noise like stifling a cry. If this was how things were going to go down, he had to at least go out with some dignity.  
  
Lucifer made a quick movement, shifting from Sam's shoulder to the flat of his chest, slicing through the cloth of his plaid shirt until sweet, chilling metal met soft, sensitive flesh.  
  
The first cut was a wakeup sting, really. Just something to get Sam's senses up to full working capacity before the real fun began. Here, the Devil was inclined to take his time. As a human― and Gods little perfect creation― Sam was just a suit of meat coated in nerves. Lucifer aimed to break every one of those nerves, swipe by ever-loving swipe into him.  
  
It stung like hell. Like with each cut, a little salt found its way into Sam and nestled itself nicely into those inviting open wounds. Despite being in similar positions as this before, each cut in its own right felt different to Sam. Whether it was the extra hint of malice behind it all, or just the fact that it was freaking _Lucifer_ on the other end of the blade, it all just felt dissimilar. More painful. Scarier.  
  
And it isn't like Sam hadn't been scared before. Hell, his job was one horror story after another. Fear came with the business. But with the Devil looming over him, a perfect messy balance of personal rage and cold, psychotic calculation, still wearing his brother's face and carving into him like Sunday's dinner, "scared" hardly did anything justice.  
  
He was nauseated, panicky, and probably a little bit high on adrenaline. And then there was the pain thing. But all of it just seemed to amount to more than what it should be.  
  
Sam wasn't afraid of death. He practically knew the guy, and had already been to hell and back once. What more can you really be afraid of? Satan?  
  
Been there, done that.  
  
Another slash across his stomach, just a little bit deeper than before. Sam bit his tongue to keep from making a noise he would later regret.  
  
"Now, now," Lucifer almost _purred_. "No need to ruin all the fun, Sammy boy. Let me hear it."  
He ran the blade over Sam's skin again, harder, and with so much more pressure.  
  
Sam jerked with what little room he had to move within the Devil's invisible bindings, but any sound he might have made was choked back into a hard swallow.  
  
Lucifer sighed. "You're a hard one Sam, I'll give you that. But they all crack eventually."  
  
He raised a hand― the one wielding Sam's inevitable fate― and aimed it just so, just over the center of Sam's stomach.  
  
"Now for the real fun."  
  


 

 

 


	3. Mercury (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under moonlight, you'll break for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done with this chapter, collectively around 10,000 words. When I told myself I wanted a longer chapter two, I hardly meant this. xD
> 
> ***NOTICE: Because this is part TWO of chapter two, it had to be posted as the next chapter. Therefore, ignore AO3 chapter numbers now as they will be one ahead. Look to the chapter graphic to know the chapter number.

_You can stay here long enough  
We can play with Bloody Mary  
Say her name into the dark  
Activate our nerve endings_

_If we can stay here long enough  
We can play with Bloody Mary  
She can chase us through the dark  
Activate our nerve endings_

_-Bloody Mary, Silversun Pickups_

 

 

**Chapter II: Mercury (Part 2)**

 

**  
**

Sam didn't believe that it was really possible, that flesh could actually make such a sound. Such a _tearing_ sound. Almost like ripping fabric, but only if the fabric was made of jell-o and beef jerky. It sounded disgusting. But it hurt more than anything.  

Jagged, rough fingernails dug into his side again, deep and purposeful. Breaking flesh and bones and spilling blood like it was cheap wine. And Sam screamed. _Jesus_ , he screamed with everything he had left in his throat that would actually bother to come up. He screamed for pain, for mercy, for _Dean_.

But Dean only smirked that mischievous smirk of his, and dug further inside.

Like a scavenger hunt. Was he looking for Sam's heart? The weak little muscle had already given up the fight a while ago, at least in spirit. What was keeping the brunette alive now had nothing to do with will or drive or anything even remotely heroic. It was pain. And fear. And the fear of pain, the anticipation of it.

Lucifer had long since discarded the little blade he'd held in favor of obscenely sharp fingernails. Practically talons, Sam had noted to himself somewhere between the shock of pain and a jolt of agony. They snagged onto open cuts and pulled at their edges, separating flesh from muscle and leaving red oozing out.

A horror film. And Sam was at least grateful of the fact that he couldn't be at an angel sharp enough to see his own stomach. He knew the sight would drive him over the edge, and if his body were capable of throwing anything up right now, it would, if not from the pain, then from the idea itself.

Sam could feel the blood pulse rapidly to his head, then drain away ever so slowly. Despite the growing dizziness, everything was hypersensitive and real. The sound of his heart, the pitch of his screams, the unholy scent of his own insides and― _God_ , the _pain_. To die would be a gift.

He barely heard his brothers voice over the deafening ringing in his ears, a product brought on by his own mad shrieking.

"This is what it feels like to choose the wrong side, Sam. This is what happens when you lose _everything_."

A cluster of nails ran across the pulsating muscles, already stripped naked of skin.

More screams. More gagging pleas for death. He couldn't possibly go on like this. It couldn't possibly get any worse.

And then, devil tore past it. Past the wall of tissuey muscle, straight into him, straight into Sam's heart. In a wave of something close to the breaking point of sanity, the organ that held Sam together had been compromised, broken. And it all fell apart.

A white hot burn of light flooded Sam's sight, blinding and deafening and all around consuming. It washed over him like liquid fire, scorching everything to the touch. Everything around him was swallowed into this great gorge- Devil and all, and Lucifer's presence couldn't even be registered anymore because of it. There was just light, and fire. White, and red. An invisible suction that seemed to pull Sam closer to the light, to the fire. An unnerving, unnatural sense of falling. And screaming, and screaming, and _screaming_ , and―

 

 

"Sam― wake the fuck up! Sam goddamit― SAM."

A jolt of pain to the jaw, not unlike a punch. Sam's eyes tore open to meet the dark color of the Impala ceiling, and Dean's horrified, misconstrued face. Only when he registered the fact that his arms were flailing about and his body, pain free, did his screaming taper off to a blend of flustered pants and bewildered whimpers.

No fire. No light. No Lucifer.

No pain.

Hands reached out to his stomach instinctively, only to brush against a solid wall of cloth and firm, seamless skin. All in tact, all unharmed. Nothing hurt at all, other than the spot where Dean's fist had met with the side of his face.

_Dean_.

Sam snapped his attention to the elder at his side, his features a glorified portrait of panic and fear, like Sam was something alien.

Sam.

" _Sam_."

An eager hand reached towards the brunette. Sam jerked backwards and retreated to the farthest end of his seat. How could he be sure? How could he _know_ this wasn't just another brilliant extension of Lucifer's sick little game?

He couldn't.

 

If Dean were some kind of whiny bitch, he probably would've let those God awful tears fall at the pitiful expression on his brother's face. The gut punching _fear_ in his eyes, fear that was unmistakably centered at Dean. It hurt like nothing else to see Sam cower in fear of _him_. And to be left in the dark as to why only added to the nauseating guilt churning in Dean's stomach. A guilt he had no logical reason to cling to as he did, but when had that ever been relevant to the king of martyrdom himself?

He took a low, slow breath and swallowed the rising water in his eyes because hail―fucking―Mary, Dean was no bitch, and there just wasn't any time for a guilt trip session when his brother was hauled up in the car corner like that, shaking more than any decently healthy person should ever shake. Dean needed to act.

S.W.A.T. team, party of one.

"Sammy? Sammy," he whispered in way too gravelly a tone. It sounded like someone had shoved rocks down his throat. It felt that way too.

"Sammy listen to me... It's _okay_." Tentative, chary this time, Dean reached out to brush a hand across Sam's shoulder. It was soft, almost kinesthetically undetectable. But Sam looked dead at Dean, into his pleading eyes without flinching away.

Progress.

"That's right Sam," Dean soothed and did his _damnedest_ not to break under the weight of his own voice. "I'm here, it's just me. Okay?"

Small, frantic nods. Eyes that still looked like they'd just witnessed a fatal car crash.

"Good." Dean let out the breath that had been holding itself in for sometime now. It felt nice to relax, even just a little, with the thought that Sam was just that much further from detonating into a firry blaze of self destructive crazy, light on his chest.

" _Dean_."

Sam's first coherent word.

More progress.

"Dean I―" A cough, quickly swallowed into a shudder. Sam wrapped his arms tighter around his knees and huffed a dry breath into his jeans. "Dean I... I just don't know," Sam whispered. "I don't know what to believe anymore. I don't know what's _wrong_."

And then Sam did that thing he should never, ever do. He looked up, eyes a pitiful wet fury, and locked an expectant gaze with Dean's own bout of lessening alarm, only to bring it back ten fold. Something shot through Dean and held him there in Sammy's grip, though Dean wasn't sure he wanted to escape it regardless. This was that place; that place where Sam wanted― _needed_ something, and Dean was powerless to deny him it. Such an age old devil's trap, and it never expired.

Sam wanted― _needed_ Dean's help. And Dean was going to do whatever needed to be done to save his little brother.

But first he had to know _what_ was wrong.

A single deep breath. 

"Sammy, what's the matter? What's got you screaming bloody murder in your sleep? I couldn't even wake you man.. I couldn't even..." He swallowed the lump forming inside his throat.

"The woman," Sam breathed. "And the gas station and―"

"Whoa, whoa, what are you talking about?" Dean made sure his face warped in a way that properly outlined his confusion. "What woman? What gas station?"

"You know― the one we stopped at earlier. There was this woman and she just, vanished but I don't know why I can't―"

Dean was anything but reluctant to cut off Sam's growing run on. "Sammy, we haven't stopped at a gas station. At all. You fell asleep way back in Oklahoma. I haven't stopped anywhere for miles." He gestured to the gas meter which was starting to teeter a little too closely to E to have been filled up anytime recently. "You've been knocked out this whole time, man. Whatever you think you remember... that had to have all been a dream."

 

A dream.

Sam's dream.

Starring Lucifer.

But he remembered waking up!

No, no, that was also just a dream.

Sam's dream.

Starring Lucifer.

Another mindfuck.

 

Shit.

 

 

 

So he'd been asleep― of course. Lucifer could get to him there. None of that had actually happened. Which should've been a relief to Sam, at least a little. He hadn't _really_ had his skin ripped from his bones or his muscles shredded fiber by fiber or even― hey― kissed his older brother. All should be well and good in the realm of the hypothetic and imaginary.

But they really weren't. Because now Sam knew, he knew the Devil could control more than he bargained for. Because even though he was restricted to Sam's subconscious, slumbering mind, he could make Sam _think_ he was awake. And that was basically just as damaging.

"Sam?"

Dean's voice was always so betraying; rising just a little too high for his taste.

Sam shook his head, silently hoping the crazy he was feeling right then would just fall out in a collection of stray hairs. He straightened himself; put down his knees away from his chest and unburied himself from the corner of his seat.

Time to look less insane.

Sam rubbed his head for a dazed effect. "A dream... Yeah― a dream. It must've been a dream. A fucked up one but... Listen man I'm sorry I'm just... not myself." He even furrowed his brows.

Convincing. If Dean were dumb, deaf, and blind.

"Not yourself? Sam, you just broke into a hysterical panic attack. Now tell me what part of that is anywhere near the ballpark of okay?"

"It's not okay, Dean, I just have to deal. I'm fine, really."

Class A bullshit. Yeah, Sam knew it.

"Yeah, you'll deal alright. We're going back to Bobby's." Dean reached for his keys in the ignition, not even bothering to mask the bewildered fury bleeding into his expression. Sam actually wanted to _pretend_ like that hadn't just happened. He actually wanted to _pretend_ like he was fine.

"Wait, what? Dean- we have a case to work."

Dean turned the key. "Yeah, and it can wait a few days until we get this sorted out. You're not going Sammy. Period."

A hand gripped Dean's wrist and he turned, only to be faced with upturned lips that oozed pleading, coupled with eyes of a bold finality. It was the kind of expression that Dean knew as well as he did anything else. The kind that always meant Sam would do whatever he needed to do, regardless of Dean's input or say so. 

"Dean, please."

Well at least he was asking.

This time Dean twisted his full body around to give Sam his undivided scrutiny. "Why do you have to make this difficult, Sam? Right now, nothing's more important than us figuring out how to get you well―"

"Dean that's what I'm trying to do!" He shook his head and took a breath. "Look, if I don't go, I'm running away. I'm letting this― _thing_ inside my head win. I've gotta prove to you, to _me_ , that I'm still capable of doing the job. Please Dean, just trust me." 

And Dean didn't trust Sam. He didn't trust Sam like he didn't trust good fortune. Exceptionally well.

But he understood what it felt like to need to prove your capabilities to someone. He also understood that if he said no, Sam would get out of the car and walk the remaining forty miles to the job. So he opted for the lesser of the two evils.

"I swear Sam, if something happens-― fucking house arrest."

Sam smiled that stupid, winning smile of his. "Thanks, Dean. Really."

"Yeah, whatever."

Dean cranked the radio loud enough to make the ground quake beneath them as they skated across the darkening horizon to what he considered, a dangerous gamble on both their parts. But dammit, if he was driving him and his brother off a cliff, he was at least going to do it to a deafening loop of Zeppelin's finest.

 

 

 

 

"Mercury."

"What?"

Dean reached into the open trunk and pulled out a couple of salt loaded shotguns, handed one to Sam and slammed the metal hatch shut.

"Mercury-- Hydrargyria or whatever." he repeated, rolling his shoulders and cocking the metal in his hands. "Mercury poisoning anyway. Don't forget your mask."

"Wait... What?"

A sideways glance. "I thought you were reading up on this on the way here, Sam."

"Uh, sorry. Forgot." He shrugged, half apologetically, half in an attempt to throw his brother off the "your mental state is fucked, this is a horrible idea" train with blatant nonchalantness. And by the slight narrow of his eyes, Sam could tell he was skating oh so close to that train. But Dean just shook his head and humored the poor boy.

"The community's water supply's not too far from here. Even closer than that, a chemical testing facility."

Sam made a face. "That's―"

"Ass backwards. Yeah. It was established like two centuries ago, which would of course mean―"

"A historical site. It can't be torn down."

"Exactly."

Sam paused. "Well then why build a water reservoir right next to it?"

"Right behind it is a river; only source of water large enough in town to act as a reserve. Thing is, nobody was actually worrying about the facility to begin with. Damn thing hadn't been used in decades. All that research and equipment was just sitting there, collecting dust."

"Until?" Sam asked, because he knew there was always an until waiting to follow.

"Until a chemical leak broke out and bled into the water supply. Mercury: Colorless. Odorless. Tasteless. And above all,"

"Deadly."

"Bingo. Authorities were quick to react to the contamination when the chemical sensors in the town's water filter went haywire. They sent out an immediate alert and a mandatory shutdown of all water pumps was enacted."

"So then this house..?"

"Missed that memo. The only house in the area still using a wooden pump system for water. Mom brewed herself a nice cup of Mercury tea. Went batshit and ganked her whole family, then herself."

"Ah, so typical case?" Pathetic attempt at a joke, Sam knew. But it was enough to get a small smirk from his brother, even if it was a bitter one. And Dean needed _something_ to laugh at.

This was a bad idea. Like, sex with that hooker back in Oakland of 07' bad. Why were they here again? To test at the boundaries of Sam's sanity? To kick the cage? Stupid. And Dean knew that. Just because Sam could snap back into normal almost as quickly as he'd left it, didn't mean the wall between _strapping young lad_ and drooling vegetable wasn't crumbling under his nose. He knew that, and yet they were _here._

Fuck.

Dean wrapped the strap of his shotgun over his shoulder and straightened his posture. Walking over to the passenger's side he reached through the open window and plucked the medical mask from atop the dash and tossed it to his brother. He retrieved the other from his back pocket and threw a quick "Letggo, Sammy." over his shoulder before strapping the white paper thing over his mouth and heading inside, all the while reminding himself that this was Sam's choice, and trying to to forge a piss poor argument that there was nothing he could do about it.

 

 

It was dark inside― of course. But even more so; it was the kind of dark the boys had grown accustomed to. Not average dark. Spooky dark. The kind of dark that meant something was lurking just beneath the surface of perception; waiting for a cute young couple or group of teens with way too much curiosity and even more time to kill. Oh, this was their element. This was an enemy they knew, and very, very well at that.

 

Dean gave his brother a nudge and a glare that said "be careful or I'll beat the ever-loving shit out of your dead corpse" before falling back into the darkness of the downstairs hallway. That left Sam to the wooden staircase looming in the far corner of his peripheral.

To his lack of surprise, each step was equipped with it's own foreboding creek every time his weight shifted on or off it. Kind of cheesy, like a horror film made in the sixties. But it held a subtle sensicalness that Sam never bothered to question.

Of course the steps creaked. It was a haunted house.

 

 

 

He reached the final few steps and paused. Something set the chill in his spine to a refined level of eeriness. He knew the feeling well enough already. Maybe _too_ well, but it was almost a comforting sort of paranoia that ran across his skin right then. He knew spirits like it was a requirement for his profession. Which is was, and he was well equipped for it. The small hairs across his neck that stood on ends were just an adjusted precautionary formality.

Sam could handle this.

He crept soundlessly across the narrow hallway, peering stealthily into empty rooms and watching out for shadows that looked just a little too malicious to be simple 

End of the hall. They were always at the end of the hall. Checking everywhere else; well that was just another formality. Sam knew where the big fish would be. It was just so perfectly predictable.

But why was it so predictable again? Sam wasn't sure he knew. Or cared.

 

He'd reached the end of his road; ornate wooden door in all of its dramatic glory separating him from what he knew had to be just a knob turn away.

Proof. Proof that he could still function, that he wasn't falling apart at the seams.

Or just the opposite.

 

Whatever the case, it had to be on the other side of this.

And so he pushed.

 

 

Not many things surprised Sam on poltergeist jobs, mostly because how many times could you jump at a disembodied voice or flying table? It wasn't exactly that it got old, but it became a little predictable at times.

So when he pushed past the small entranceway and into a vast new realm of alien feel and deep, perplexing design, Sam couldn't help the wave of air that escaped him.

Mirrors.

Tons and tons of mirrors. Some very large and decorative, others smsll and simple and hardly noticeable in the shadows of their more extravagant cousins. They lined the walls and ceiling; some overlapping others or standing face to face to cast never ending portals of reflection. Some were broken, cracked, or in pieces on the carpet beneath, looking ominous and recognitive in an otherworldly sort of way. Many were dust-coated and and dim, and even from afar Sam could tell they would only show a vague blur of whatever image stood in front of them. But others; others were clear and blemish free as if only a little while ago they had been under a tarp somewhere, deep in storage.

There was one window, far off and opposite the door Sam had come through. It was only partially draped by very sheer white curtains and what remained bare let in an ethereal glow of pearl colored moonlight. It was this that truly gave the room its awing allure, melting over every surface and casting rich light which bounced hundreds of times over and even broke into shards of rainbows in some places.

It was beautiful. And so very, very unnerving.

Sam took a step inside to further survey his surroundings. Nothing from the outside of this house could give hint to such a spectacular thing as this. This room... Sam felt as if it didn't belong to the same structure.

A few more steps and he was vaguely at the center of the room when the door behind him shut with a quiet click.

Eerie. But also another thing Sam could add to his list of cheesy sixties horror film tricks. And whatever it was that made that so off-putting, he hadn't yet pinpointed.

His attention turned to a mirror far off to his left. The biggest in the room, and certainly the most immaculate. Silver spines curled up and around themselves to form a frame, twisting at obscure angles like barbed wire at the edges. And as he approached it, Sam found it was as tall as he was and then some. It displayed his entire reflection as well as the what was behind him and he caught glimpses of himself in other mirrors, mirrored in that mirror. Too long and he knew he would start to feel dizzy.

But a voice, as real as the night and as quiet as it too, called to him. Not by name or familiarity, but through muffled, desperate cries for help. Sam turned abruptly to find the source.

But there was nothing.

He heard the voice grow in proximity and volume. Soon, it came as if it's owner were right next to Sam. He turned back to the mirror nearest him.

There she was. A young girl, no older than eight or nine, brown hair brushed up into tight pigtails hung over an olive green dress. Her face was red, like she'd been crying for quite some time, and she looked at Sam with pitiful, expectant eyes.

"Help us, _please_."

Sam knelt down to be at eye level with the girl-reflection. His face was soft, understanding. "What is it you need help with?"

"Help! Save us before she finds us!"

"Before who finds you? Who's us?"

"Me and my brother― please mister! You gotta stop her!"

"Her? You mean your mother?"

"Please! Save us!"

"Okay, okay, you gotta give me a second here. Now what's―"

 

 

And she was gone.

A breeze swept across his face and Sam knew it was a sign of something bigger and badder to come, and soon. He stood, straightened himself, and took the shotgun from his shoulder.

And as if on cue, a violent wind erupted― from nothing at all. It swirled and twirled and twisted and whipped at the space around Sam, picking up shards of glass from the floor and engulfing them into its tornado spin. Sam lifted his arms to shield his face."

" _It wasn't safe_."

The voice was like a loud whisper, echoing from all around Sam. He forced his head in the direction of the mirror by his side. There a woman stood, all of five feet, pale faced and sinister looking. A little like the Grudge, Sam mused to himself between pricks of glass at his back.

"What wasn't safe?" he yelled over the loudness.

She only looked back at him. _"It wasn't safe."_

"The water? Was it the water that wasn't safe?"

" _It wasn't safe_."

"Fuck, agh, okay." He really hadn't planned on reasoning with the thing tonight. Gank and go, that was the plan. Stupid ghosts had to make a show of things.

Way too much of a show, if you asked Sam. The creaky floorboards, the ominous moonlight, the self shutting door the freaking ghost kid, the hurricane force winds? It all added up to a big pathetic sideshow of genetic scare tactics that he didn't find at all humorous. It felt so lame and staged and the more Sam thought about it, the dumber it all seemed. Freaking house, practically in the middle of nowhere, suddenly riddled with activity even though no one's lived in it for years? It was like a bad set up to and even worse film. Completely unrealistic. Completely....

 

Unreal.

 

And suddenly everything made a sick, unwanted sense.

He looked back at the woman, having half expected her to have vanish by now, only to find her smiling something wild.

"You win again, Sam. You always win."

The mirror blurred and shook and Sam stepped back, waiting for the very face that had lead him here in the first place to appear. He wasn't even sure Dean was even really downstairs. It only occurred to him right then that he hadn't heard from the elder this entire time. Who knew, maybe Sam had driven himself again.

Right into Lucifer's arms.

There was a painful screeching noise ringing high above the wind and tumbling glass as the Devil's shape melted into the mirror frame, all smiles and good times abound.

"Sam, how're we doing this evening?"

"Fuck you." He bolted for the door. If Sam could avoid _anything_ right about now, it would be a repeat of earlier's events. He groped at the doorknob.

_Locked_. And really, why wouldn't it be?

"Sam, please. Why are you running away from _me_? Don't I make you happy?"

And it sounded so fucking sincere. Because Lucifer was the master of deception, deception without lies. Even with the short laugh that followed, Sam felt like the Devil really expected him to buy into his bullshit.

Anger flared inside his chest and Sam turned back to face eye of the storm.

"I'm not―!"

Lucifer smiled softly, kindly, knowingly. "Not what, Sammy?"

It was anything close to a miracle that Sam could even hear the little remark. All the blood had flushed from his face and his heart was pounding fiercely at the hollowness of his ears.

"Now Sam, you shouldn't be so surprised. You are after all, looking into a mirror."

Only Sam wasn't looking into a mirror, not at all really. Because Lucifer wasn't a two dimensional figure standing in between a metal frame anymore. Lucifer was real, and three dimensional, and standing just a few feet from Sam.

 

Wearing Sam's face.

Which was like looking in a mirror, Sam supposed.

Which he then realized, was probably the joke.

 

Sam hadn't seen his face― with Lucifer playing hide and seek under it― since he'd taken over Sam's body years ago. Well, he had seen it, but in dreams. Dark, haunting dreams he dared not think about in the daylight.

Sam had thought long and hard and compulsively about this. Perhaps the most frightening part of that entire ordeal at the time wasn't the fact that the world was ending, or that everyone he loved would die, or even that he would lose Dean.

It was that somewhere deep down, Sam was afraid that the Devil was right, and that he would one day become the very thing he fought so hard against.

Seeing himself like this, eyes bright with devilish intensions, only helped that fear simmer up to the surface again and leave Sam speechless.

He hadn't even noticed the wind had stopped. The loud buzzing too. All that registered were Lucifer's eyes, cruel fakes of what should belong to Sam, and that stupid, _stupid_ grin.

"You are mine, Sam. You were always mine."

"―Shut up―"

"Why? So you don't have to hear the truth?"

"You aren't real! I'm asleep!"

"Oh I'm real. As real as you. As real as this." He motioned to the weird wonderland around them. "You're in my playground Sam. All these toys? They're mine. _You_ , are mine."

"I said shut up!"

"See I don't _really_ need you knocked out to have my fun. That was just a little safety net I thought I'd give you earlier. Let you think you had an out, didn't I?" He smiled. "Nah. You're my bitch in real time too, buddy boy."

Sam's jaw tightened. "And that girl? Her mother? This whole case?"

"Fake."

It was too much. The voice was too much. The words were too much. Lucifer, Lucifer was just _too much._

The Devil softened his smile once again. "Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine." He laughed. "Mine and always mine. _Forever_ and for always, right, Sammy boy?"

And Sam just wanted to be anywhere in the universe other than here. He'd die a hundred times over if it would just get him _away_. He only had to _get away..._

 

 

 

 

It erupted like nothing else. A hot white light and Sam remembered it from before only this time, it didn't burn. This time, it wasn't deafening. This time, he could still hear Lucifer's grotesque cackling from every angle possible. It echoed across the room and around his eardrums, loud, and maddening.

It had to stop. It had to fucking stop.

So Sam did the only thing he could think to do.

He gripped the piece of metal and wood finish in his hands and began swinging. Swinging at nothing, swinging at everything, just― swinging. There was no way to tell what he was aiming at with this light clouding his sights but Sam waved that gun around like it was a freaking bat in a street fight. At first, he only grazed a few things, caught them at their corners. But soon he was crashing his weapon into straight walls of reflective glass. Mirror upon mirror shattered and fell and cracked and splintered into itty bitty shards of useless garbage. Some collapsed so violently, their excess pieces came flying back towards Sam, making shallow cuts across his cheeks and forehead.

But Sam didn't even notice. All he could hear was the fading sound of the Devil's sick humor. It fueled his panic and his rage and he just kept smashing away at things. Trying to make it all stop.

So of course he hadn't heard a bit of his brother's frantic calls, hadn't heard the door come crashing down or the heavy footsteps coming straight for him, or the voice that sometime, somewhere, had faded into the distant background. Sam didn't notice any of that, until a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around viciously.

_Lucifer._

No,

_Dean._

Wait,

Dean? Light― No light!

Clarity.

Sam looked past his brother, wide-eyed and appalled and just about sanity-free. He looked at soft, dust coated walls with pictures of smiling children and fruit. At small coffee tables at either end of the room and the one, small ceiling fan just above him. He looked at everything that was there, that wasn't there just a moment ago. This had been am ethereal room made of mirrors― mirrors that Sam _demolished._

There were none of those here now.

Well, all but one, broken in pieces on the floor at Sam's feet. Only then did he register the feeling of glass through his shoe digging into the flat of his foot, and of the sting of open cuts lining everywhere from his fingertips on up. It looked like Sam had wallowed in the shards surrounding him.

It _looked_  like he was crazy.

He turned to Dean, all panic and fear in his expression and not a damn thing else. He looked at Dean in silence for what seemed like ages. And he was about to say something― anything to break it, when a soft buzzing crawled into his ear, burrowed itself in the center of his head, and lulled him into a quickly fading consciousness.

 

The last thing that Sam would remember, was the initial impact of his body weight falling back onto broken glass, and his brother, crying for help in the most desperate voice Sam had ever heard.

 

 

 

 

 

Lucifer frowned. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not twice. But the burn marks on his hands told a different story.

He inspected them. Mused over their jagged line patterns before willing them to fade away, leaving spotless skin once again. Even the simple task of healing himself seemed to take more from him than it ever had before. Not a lot, but still.

_No_. He wouldn't let this happen. Over a soul?

_Ha!_

No, he would crush it. Before it had a chance to do the same to him.

The Devil could never lose to a puppet wearing skin.

 

 

"Burn me once, shame on you.

Burn me twice,

 

 

 

I wont play so nice."

 

 

End.

 

 

  


**Chapter III: Ammonia Preview**

  
  
  
Sam left his fingers to trail aimlessly at the wall. So this was what it felt like to be betrayed by everyone dearest to you.  
  
  
  
  


 


	4. Ammonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is unwanted. Sam is unloved. Sam is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a little over a month since the end of chapter two. Honestly, I had started writing chapter three directly afterwards, but the Muse just wasn't speaking to me. I basically wrote the entire thing yesterday. I consider that a win.

_Picture perfect mutilation;  
Bright to black with no hesitation.  
All the right shades on the wrong page,  
Make up this colorful mind of mine._

_Soothing brush strokes, scraping paint.  
Loosen your grip before it all fades.  
Vibrant rays, eclipsed by the haze,  
Make up your colorful mind  
Much less colorful_

_Will this be another day of night in here?  
The knife's not sharp enough to fear.  
If I ever see you in white  
Try to stay.  
The room's not light for a gray._

_―Colorful Mind, Broken Iris_

_  
_

**Chapter III: Ammonia**

  
  
They rushed through the building at full commanding speed, urgency thick and looming in the air. Dean kept close to his brother's side as nurses wheeled his stretcher past closed doors and into an elevator that was just taking way too damn long. Bobby was there, close by Dean's shoulder, mentally praying to every dickbag in the sky for something, for _anything_. Someone had to be listening, someone had to help them.  
  
The Oklahoma Health Center for the Medically Exhausted and Psychologically Ill. Crazy jail, as Dean had put it, when the woman at the hospital had informed him of where they would be transporting his brother. Crazy jail for psycho weirdos who pulled out their eyelashes and walked imaginary dogs. But that wasn't his brother. That wasn't Sammy. Sammy was just sick, is all.  
  
They hadn't yet made it to their perspective room before Sam's eyebrows were furrowing and he slowly came to. Dean stared down at  Sam, at what he first saw as confusion.  
  
"Dean, what..."  
  
And then realization. As big as the moon, horror played on the surface of Sam's face.  
  
"Dean? Dean?! Dean what the hell are you doing? Dean! Answer me! Dean!"  
  
Dean bit back the choking in his throat. " 'M sorry, Sammy. I got no other choice, man. Not right mow."  
  
They reached Sam's room and a handful of attendees rushed in after. Sam looked horrified; eyes blown wide with disbelief and betrayl. That was enough to stab Dean right where it hurt the most.  
  
His heart.  
  
Sam pulled at the straps around his wrists. "You can't do this― Dean listen to me! Just _listen!_ " Kicking. "Dean hes real!" And screaming. "Lucifer is real!" And struggling. "Just _listen to me!_ " Dean couldn't bare it. " _Dean!_ " Not another minute.  
  
He shook his head. " _Sammy_. Sammy I'm so sorry."  
  
"We're going to have to sedate him. I'm sorry sir, but you have to leave."  
  
Only Dean's feet were nailed to floor beneath him. His eyes were locked on Sam, _his Sam_ , thrashing and screaming as a group of nurses rushed over to hold him down. If it weren't for the strong tug at his arm from Bobby, he would've never left of his own accord.  
  
Dean couldn't help the raw lump nestling thick inside his throat. It sat there like a stone and weighed down everything in him to a scary pressure. He couldn't breathe, not like he should. And if anyone had said anything to him right then, words of a reply would've never found their way to his lips.  
  
Bobby was walking him out slowly, but with a forceful stride not meant to be broken by the pull Dean had to his little Sammy, which Bobby knew would yank him back into that room within a second of falter. No, Bobby kept Dean close at arms until they reached the outside parking lot, hesitantly letting go when only when Dean's Baby came into peripheral view.  
  
He turned to his junior, face tight. "You gonna be alright, boy?"  
  
Dean rubbed a dry hand over his face and shook his head. "Meet you at your place later."  
  
They both knew later wasn't really a time. And Booby could've demanded firmer specifics then, but he opted not to.  
  
Instead, a quiet nod. "Just don't do nothin' stupid, you hear me?" He placed a firm hand on Dean's shoulder before retreating to his car, certain the elder Winchester would have the restraint not to go back inside now that he'd made it out into the fresh air. Dean watched the old car vanish onto the street before getting in the Impala and fastening his seatbelt.  
  
He didn't start it right away though. Hands at the wheel as if already on the road, eyes completely fixed on the scene across his windshield. But keys still tucked away snugly in his pocket.  
  
He was grateful then, that Bobby had left him; and that he wasn't close enough with anyone else who might suddenly pop up just then, save for one dead angel he might like to forget for the time being.  
  
Dean was grateful, because no one should ever see a hunter like this. Bitter tears torpedoing down flushed cheeks onto the stearing wheel, knuckles bone white and shaking. It wasn't the trademark look. But it was something, just one of many things it seemed like lately, that Dean couldn't stop from happening.  
  
So he just succumbed. To the crushing weight pressing down on his chest, to the violent shuddering sobs fighting to all break free from his throat at once, and to the wet sting of salty water drowning his vision in blurriness. He let the guilt and the fear and the rage take hold and shake the composure from his skin.  
  
Because there was just only so much build up one man could take. Dean had lost Sammy before, on more than one occasion. But this was different than a trip to Hell or a demon blood binge with a smooth talking hellbitch.  
  
To Dean, Sam wasn't in a building just a few yards away. He wasn't even in a fiery pit on some other unmappable plane.  
  
To Dean, Sam was just gone.  
  
  
And that was so nauseatingly terrifying in itself.  
  
  
So very, _very_ , terrifying.  
  
  
  
  
  
There were words being said, but none of them actually made any sound. There was movement, but it was all in fast paced blurs Sam didn't understand. He knew he was there― somewhere. But he couldn't _feel_ where. Maybe that was supposed to be frightening.  
  
It was.  
  
The people around weren't listening. He _wasn't_ crazy. He _wasn't._ Why wouldn't they stop and listen? Like they couldn't hear him― He was telling them to _pay attention_. To stop and see, the things in his head were real, _Lucifer_ was real.  
  
Just listen. Please just listen.  
  
But nobody did.  
  
He felt a dreary lull creep up his legs slowly and spread across the whole of his torso. Suddenly everything felt ten times as heavy, and Sam couldn't seem to hold onto a single thought for more than a shaky second.  
  
Drugs were effective fuckers, he noted in passing, before slipping into inevitable nothingness.  
  
  
  
  


Black

  
There was darkness. Sam wasn't sure where it came from, but then again he wasn't sure where there was anything _to_ come from in the first place. As to where it ended; well that was a mystery as well. It was just all black, from the space he assumed was directly in front of him, to what might or might not have been areas far off in the distance.  
  
He tried to turn around.  
  
Black.  
  
He lifted his arms.  
  
Black.  
  
He reached out to touch his face.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Claustrophobia tinged around Sam's growing fears, making his head sway. Where was this place? And how far to the nearest _not here_? Could he even walk? Sam didn't bother a limb check for his legs; at this point it would just feel kind of stupid.  
  
Maybe this was an effect of the medication they'd practically stabbed into his arm. Then again, it could be an illusion, but black holes of nothingness weren't really Satan's usual style of torture. Compared to that, this was a reprieve.  
  
The thought of Lucifer spiked something quiet and subtle in Sam. Clarity, and it came in growing waves. Nothing around him had changed, but soon, Sam was hearing whispers. Voices.  
  
Well one voice.  
  
Speak of the Devil, right?  
  
Nothing quite made sense at first; partially because the context of the words was unknown, and partially because Sam's brain's first reaction was to go into full panic mode, practically shutting out the sounds that were trying to come in.  
  
But nothing was happening. Not to him, and somehow the coast seemed clear. As clear as any pitch black void could be. So Sam allowed himself to calm, to breathe, and to listen.  
  
".... a little while longer. I'm not quite done with things here."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Does it matter?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"I appreciate your thoughts on the subject matter, but this is _my_ choice."  
  
Longer silence.  
  
"I'd watch your tone with me, Death. I am after all, the one who raised you."  
  
 _Death?_  
  
As if knowing who was on the receiving end of this little chat was all Sam needed to get reception on the other line, the missing half suddenly became audible.  
  
"Yes, and I am the one who raised _you_ , Lucifer."  
  
Definitely Death's voice.  
  
"Don't forget, I'm the keeper of your... 'Earth Visa.' I can decline it, just as easily as I've approved it."  
  
This time the silence was just a pause; one in which Sam imagined the Devil was calming his predictable, though always quiet temper.  
  
"My _apologizes_ , Horseman. Allow me to readdress. I would... _appreciate_ more time here. I have yet to complete what I've started."  
  
"And what happens if you can't complete this... escapade of yours?"  
  
"Impossible."  
  
"So sure?"  
  
"Aren't I always?"  
  
Sam imagined then a smirk playing smugly on the Devil's face.  
  
"Yes, and that is why you're in a cage for all of eternity. Regardless, I'll grant you more time. I can't say I'm not just a little bit interested in how you plan to _kill_ a Winchester. And to have him actually stay dead? Really, you're an idealist, Lucifer. Much like your father."  
  
"Watch it, Horseman."  
  
Anger.  
  
"Right. Well, I'll leave you to your business then. Send my best wishes."  
  
And then silence.  
  
Lots and lots of silence.  
  
So much silence that Sam began to worry over the idea that he had actually completely lost his mind now, and this was what he had to look forward to for some odd eternity.  
  
Silence.  
  
But that dizzy feeling came again, slowly creeping up Sam's spine and out to the tips of his would-be fingers and toes. He felt lightheaded.  
  
Drowsy.  
  
  
  
  


White

  
It was blinding, even as it sept through the thin flesh of Sam's eyelids. But this wasn't _that_ light. It was painful and waking. Fluorescent. A different kind of light altogether. Sam dared to pry a squinting eyelid open.  
  
 _Too bright._ He snapped it shut.  
  
  
Everything was heavy, achey, like Sam had been asleep for days. And there was this distinct buzzing inside the drum of his ear. Consistent like the hum of something old and rusting. Annoying, like a gnat.  
  
But nothing seemed to be as jarring as the air. It sat thick and heavy on his lungs, and Sam would swear the only thing he could taste was the wretched, overpowering scent of ammonia.  
It burrowed deep in his nostrils and roamed around the cavities of his mouth. It tasted just like clean. Like sterile.  
  
Sam dared another peek at the realm around him. One eyelid, then two; forcibly parted to expose the tender flesh of his eyes to the violent light about him.  
  
It was assaulting really, menacing. And for a moment Sam couldn't see a thing past it. But shapes soon came into focus. The neat, off white tiling of a ceiling, the silver rim of an industrial lamp and the small bead of brilliant pain in its center; Sam let his eyes adjust.  
  
After a while the world― and Sam's thoughts― became a bit clearer. Those hunter instincts were beginning to kick into survival mode. Sam needed to scope out his environment. He sat up, slowly, because the underlining ache in his muscles was surfacing again, and took a good survey of the place.  
  
There was white. Much too much for Sam's taste. The walls were white. The tiling of the floor was― stained― but for the most part white. If anything, the sheer lack of color could drive a person insane.  
  
Even the doorframe to the only visible exit in the room was white, as well as the door itself. It wasn't a large door, and upon further scrutiny, Sam discovered it wasn't heavily reinforced either. Just a door, with an average house lock. Sam could break through that with his thumbs. Which he found just a bit odd.  
  
The only thing that _wasn't_ colored in that famous shade of crazy, other than the overhead lamp, was the bed frame. Sam had to lean over to inspect it. Wiry, metallic, and completely unspectacular. Just a bed. And not a very comfortable one. Other than this and himself and a small nightstand with― of course― a white styrofoam cup of water, there wasn't a thing but air in this room.  
  
And Sam began to wonder: Why was he here again? Where exactly _was_ here again? Lucifer? No. Well maybe? No, wait. _Dean_. And crazy. Dean crazy. No, _Sam_ crazy. Sam was crazy. At least Dean thought so. _Dean_.  
  
 _  
Right._  
  
This was that place where crazy people went to lick windows and catch butterflies until they died of suicide or natural causes. Dean had sent Sam _here_.  
  
  
 _Right._  
  
Sam scowled a bit. This had to be a joke. He most absolutely wasn't crazy. He was just seeing Satan everywhere he went, in horrifying, brutally real scenarios. That wasn't even close to crazy.  
  
Oh.  
  
  
 _Right._  
  
Well even so. Dean should have believed in Sam more than this. He should've trusted Sam more. Though, if Sam remembered correctly, he _had_ violently trashed about like a wild animal before Dean had left him here.  
  
  
Well fuck.  
  
Sam drug his hands over his face, something he was beginning to do more and more often these days. Why couldn't things be right? Why couldn't they at least stick to problem areas he understood? The Devil was real, that much he was sure of. But was _this_ Devil real? That, he wasn't so sure about. And it pained him to his very core. Because it just wasn't _fair_. Sam held things together, he didn't fall apart, not like this, not in his _head_ of all places. He thought of the dream he'd just had. It _was_ a dream of course. Sam thought of how it made no sense whatsoever, and about how that didn't even really matter at all, because he knew it couldn't have been a dream because it was just _too real_ and honestly, what the fuck was he even saying anymore? And Dean should've known, he should've known better than to send Sam here. Solidarity wasn't what he needed. Neither was lying around in a white robe all day and oh― Sam hadn't even checked what he was wearing. Gray-white pajamas. _Nice._  
  
This was stupid. It was fucked up and counterproductive and Sam was just done with it. He swung his feet over the bedside and made an attempt to stand. His legs were wobbly and felt a little too much like they were made of silly puddy, but Sam could stand, nonetheless.  
  
He took a second to get used to the feel of his own weight; it felt as if he hadn't stood for days. And the sensation of his bare feet on the icy floor was almost painfully chilling, sending shock waves straight up his calves all the way to his spinal chord. But Sam had felt far worse in his lifetime, so it wasn't long at all before he was heading to the door at the opposite end of the room. Not long at all before his fingers wrapped around the sleek little door handle and turned with an unapologetic determination. Not long at all before he swung it open, almost weightless in his hand, and the world around him was bathed in white, and then swallowed in black.  
  
  
  
  


Sound

  
It was too loud. It was high pitched and violent and just _too loud._ The sound; what was it? It was in fact a sound, wasn't it? Sam opened his eyes, this time to find a world in which he'd rather be ignorant of.  
  
That sound, that― ungodly sound, that was the result of scraping metal against metal. A drill in fact, counter aligned with another by closely cut grooves. Sparks flew like fireworks where their rimmed edges met, and so came about that _sound._ But really, Sam had lost all attention for that now, what with two rapidly spinning pointed ends hanging high above his head in the worst horror film parallel imaginable. Drills, aimed for _him._ And Sam would have moved out of the way right then, but of course, he was strapped to what he assumed to be an operating table. This was definitely a position wearing thin on Sam's tolerance scale.  
  
He pulled at the restraints, to no avail, but, then again, he hadn't expected much result in the first place.  
  
He needed to get out of here. Sam needed to get off of this death trap. As to how he ended up on it in the first place, it was only natural that the cause began with a "Lu" and ended in "cifer." But again, no time to contemplate. He bit back the rising panic in his stomach and forced a look around with what little room his neck could stretch. The walls were a filthy shade of deep gray, splattered here and there with something black and dried and oily looking. The floor, from what Sam could see, didn't look much different. Maybe a bit dirtier. But beyond that... there was silver. Stacks and stacks of silver carts and silver hooks and silver probes and objects on silver trays. Rusted silver, polished silver. Shiny and dull and overwhelmingly cluttered. Some things looked as if they were _made_ for torture. Others, weren't too far from the fitting the bill.  
  
Sam yanked at his bindings again.  Now would be a good time to hulk out or _something_. This just didn't look good. It didn't look―  
  
" _Sammy._ "  
  
And Sam stopped breathing. Because that voice, that slur of an address; that was the end right there. Sam's death warrant. His swan song.  
  
It was only fitting that it rang above that God awful singing of the drill. Clear as day, it was; and yet somehow as quiet as the night. Sam let it filter over him. He allowed the real panic to settle in and prick at every nerve in his body. He laid there, like _prey._ Even when cool fingers brushed over his forearm and a face, calm as it was, appeared next to him. Lucifer smiled something soft and approachable, a trick Sam would never let get the better of himself, and touched a finger to the shaking warmth that was Sam's cheek. He ghosted over it, over the light hairs perked up on Sam's chin, down the hollow of his neck, stopping just shy of his collar bone.  
  
" _Sam._ " He whispered. "What have they done to you? You broken thing, you; how could they send you here and leave you all alone?"

 

And fuck if the Devil wasn't bipolar. Or rather he wanted to seem so."

  
"Please." God, Sam was trying here. Trying to reason with the Devil. How silly. "Please stop. Stop this."  
  
"They left you to _rot,_ Sam. To lose everything you were. _They_ left _you_ to _die."  
_  
"No―"  
  
"Dean and Bobby? They don't care. Not about you. Especially Dean. He's been trying to get rid of you since he knew about your little problem."  
  
Funny, Sam thought Lucifer _was_ the problem.  
  
"This is just his way of dropping off baggage. You, Sam. You're baggage."  
  
Sam pulled at the ties around his arms, using everything he owned to break free, to stop this _noise._ But nothing changed. He was still strapped down, and Lucifer was still the sick son of a bitch hovering over him. And something, deep and quiet in his head, whispered to him that nothing was really _going_ to change. This was a thing now. A thing he would endure.  
  
Lucifer frowned and said so again. "You poor thing. You _broken_ thing. "A pensive pause." I'll save you."  
  
One last touch to Sam's shoulder, and the Devil stepped away, practically vanishing into nothing in a matter of seconds, leaving only Sam. He exhaled a dry breath, less out of relief, and more a product of exasperated consternation. Save Sam? How would Satan _save_ Sam? And from what? Lucifer seemed to be the only problem here. But something gave Sam all the answers he could, or maybe not, want just then. That screaming sound above his head, it stopped, suddenly as if by the merciful hand of God. Just, _stopped._ Sam stared up at it with wild eyes and let this newfound silence settle in around his ears.  
  
It had stopped.  
  
Just _stopped._  
  
Lucifer saved him.  
  
From Lucifer's trap.  
  
Which wasn't sensical at all.  
  
Why?  
  
Well because Lucifer wasn't merciful.  
  
Lucifer wasn't kind.  
  
Lucifer was the master manipulator of give and take.  
  
He gave hope―  
  
  
Just as suddenly as they'd stopped, those pointed ends resumed their rapid spin once again, waking with them that ear-piercing screech, and beginning a descent, ever so slowly, towards Sam.  
  
  
― And he took hope away.  
  
And maybe it was the confusion. Maybe it was the panic that rushed to Sam's face when all the blood had since run cold and retreated. Maybe it was just the Devil's doing. But those next twenty seconds or so, those were the longest seconds of Sam's life. Longer than the moment he'd found Jess stapled to the ceiling above his bed. Longer than when he'd first laid eyes on his father, lying dead on the floor of that hospital. Longer than his fall to Hell.  
  
Watching death approach you with malicious precision; something about those seconds was just much longer.  
  
And as those two little drills came closer and closer to Sam, he realized then that they were only so far from each other to span the distance between his own two eyes. And as they came close enough to cloud his entire vision, Sam closed his eyes. No, it wouldn't stop what was inevitably coming. But Sam couldn't bare to watch something spear straight through his sight. That would honestly be impossible.  
  
  
  


Fear

  
Bright lights. And hands. Too many hands. Too many hands on Sam, near Sam. Voices. They were urgent at best. At worst? Dangerous. And they were everywhere at once.  
  
"Sedate," one said.  
  
"Violent." Another.  
  
"Drugs." A third.  
  
And Sam wondered what they meant, wondered why the air about him was so frantic. He had just been one place and then...  
  
No. Sam couldn't think about that. Not about that. God, just _not that._ Sam was here now, in the room with the bright lights. How he got here was beyond him. But that wasn't even important.  
  
Things were blurry, numb. Sam wasn't registering much beyond light and sound and _hands._ Why on earth were they there? Why did they feel so― heavy?  
  
And then Sam realized; he was _moving._ Kicking and punching and _thrashing_ against the hands of― six?― maybe seven people. Nurses. Attendees. All attempting to hold him down. Because he was violent. He was the problem. But Sam couldn't stop it. It wasn't him, it _wasn't._ His body was just... reacting now.  
  
The torture room; how long had it been? Hours? Days? The last Sam remembered was barbed wire on skin. Acid injections and slow drowning. Quartering. Impaling. Oh yes, and those spinning spears through his eye sockets; drilling until they stood soaked in red from the back of his skull.  
  
But that wasn't even half of it, that much Sam knew, and he didn't care to think about what else he was leaving out. It was still happening, in Sam's mind that is. He couldn't _see_ the torture chamber any longer, but he was still there. Strapped down to a table, much like these hands. And maybe that was the real kicker, the reason Sam couldn't stop himself from bucking against the people who were admittedly trained to help him. This was the same. In there or in here, this was torture. These people? They were here to hurt Sam. Everyone was here to hurt Sam. So yeah, he was going berserk. Out of anger, out of confusion, out of _fear._ All of that raw _fear._ Sam had a right to this.  
 _  
"But you should know better than this."_  
  
It hadn't come from anywhere but Sam's head, just in a voice that wasn't his. Taunting him. And God, Sam was just _so scared_ of it.

 

Tears flooded the already blurred tunnel that was his sight, forcing him― if only for a second― to stop moving and let the ripple of a sob travel through his spine. It was enough of a falter for one of the attendees to drive a needle into the skin just above his wrist.  
  
What little feeling Sam had had up to that point began to fade instantly. His movements, his struggle, they fell into motionlessness and heavy limbs, leaving only warm tears to continue to spill over without control. Sam's head was slipping into sweet unconsciousness.  
  
But not without the faint sound of Lucifer's words scraping at the little bit of hope Sam had left in his heart.  
 _  
"You're mine, Sammy."  
  
"You belong to me, Sam."  
  
"Samuel, I own you."_  
  
  
"Sam."  
  
  
 _"Sam."_  
  
  
  


Silence

  
Sam waited for what seemed like ages. He waited for the Devil's voice to appear like it had before. He waited to hear more of the words he didn't understand.  
  
Sam was here again, in the blackness. So the medication was at fault. But not a soul was speaking this time. Not a word. Sam was alone in this endless void of nothing and by now, he wasn't even sure whether or not that was a good thing.  
  
So he waited. He waited for the darkness to pass. He waited for his body to wake up, and bring him back to whatever reality the Devil had in store for him today. Sam waited. And he thought.  
  
About Lucifer, about life, about Dean. _Dean._ The loving brother who had sent him here in the first place. Like baggage, like a burden. Those were the things Sam was to him and everyone else he'd ever gotten to close to. Sam was the troubled kid that no one wanted. No one but Lucifer.  
  
 _Ha._ Well wasn't that just something.  
  
Perhaps Sam's greatest mistake in life, was saying no to the only person who might have ever truly needed him around.  
  
  
  


More

  
Sam left his fingers to trail aimlessly at the wall. So this was what it felt like to be betrayed by everyone dearest to you. Funny, it felt numb.  
  
They were giving Sam a lot more of those pills these days. They were the same as the injections, but these they gave to him when he behaved himself, rather than when he couldn't.  
  
And between the constant one on one horror sessions with Lucifer, and the moments of just mentally reliving it all in his little white room, the pills were Sam's favorite times of the day. They let him drift off into the blackness. Sometimes, he would hear Lucifer like he had the first time. Nothing directed towards him; just conversation eavesdropping. Lucifer didn't talk to a lot of people. Mostly Death. In fact, Death was really the only one, if Sam remembered correctly. He couldn't trust his memory much these days though. So maybe, or maybe not. But nothing the Devil ever talked about quite made sense to Sam. It was always something about him, his name was always mentioned in some form. But for the life of Sam, he couldn't grasp what any of it meant.  
  
Something about time. Time and souls. Time and souls and Sam. Something. But what thing? Sam didn't know.  
  
Sam needed more pills. He needed to know what _thing_. He just needed to know. He needed to _listen._ Someone had to _listen_ to what the Devil was saying. Sam wasn't sure why though. Sam wasn't sure of much these days.  
  
A nice woman― one Sam had seen before, the one with the pretty red hair― she came in and walked over to Sam, asked Sam how he was doing. Sam was doing just fine, he told her. Sam was very quiet today. She nodded and smiled at Sam, and gave Sam what he wanted. Sam swallowed them quickly, greedily, and waited to be taken away to that place where nothing existed. Nothing but blackness, and Lucifer, and thoughts.  
  
  
  


Less

  
Sam didn't feel much like Sam anymore. Sam couldn't recall at all the things that Sam once liked. He thinks Sam might've liked computers once. But maybe that was only a part of Sam's job.  
  
Job. Sam's job. Hunting. Family business. _Dean._  
  
Sam didn't think much about Dean either, didn't quite remember what Dean sounded like, what Dean looked like, not at all what Dean smelled like. The last time Sam had seen Dean, Dean's face was being ground into an industrial meat grinder. Sam thought that was Tuesday. But Sam wasn't quite sure. Time didn't really keep up in Sam's mind like it had before. He measured his days by his time spent in the black nothingness. He was sure he only went there once a day. Well, maybe twice. Three times?  
  
Sam felt less and less like he knew things. There were just too many things to know. How to speak words, what words to speak, how and when to use the bathroom, what foods tasted like. He wasn't stupid. Sam was never stupid. He just wasn't _sure_ anymore. It was just so hard to be sure about things. There were too many.  
  
Lucifer had things. Some of those things hurt. Others were just confusing. Lucifer did things to Sam, things Sam did not like. Not at all. But he would say that Sam was his. And that confused Sam.  
  
Why would someone break their own things? That wasn't what people did, was it? Sam thought people loved their things. Maybe Sam was wrong. He was wrong about a lot lately.  
  
Sam didn't see Lucifet as much lately either. Lucifer still came, still talked to Sam, still hurt Sam. But he came less and less. Sam wondered where he was going, wondered why he wasn't there as much. He wondered if that meant Lucifer didn't want Sam anymore.  
  
Oh no. No, no, no. Sam couldn't be unwanted. Lucifer wanted Sam, right? Sam was his.  
  
Right?  
  
  
  


Gone

  
Lucifer didn't come. He didn't come for a long, long while. It scared Sam, more than the things Lucifer did scared him. It scared Sam because Lucifer was gone. And that meant Sam was alone.  
  
But Sam just wasn't Sam anymore. Not without Lucifer. And Lucifer was gone. So Sam so was gone too.  
  
  


 

 

Love

  
Dean pressed the cool metal of his pistol's mouth to a soft spot, just below the ear. The feeling of its contact with warm skin was electric and chilling, setting off static through the room. He'd do this. He'd do this for Sammy.  
  
The pistol clicked and Dean held onto his breath, when a voice stopped him.  
  
"Please, please okay I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything I know! Just please, don't hurt me man. I got kids, y'know?"  
  
Dean took a good long look into the man's eyes for a moment, searching for sincerity. He didn't have time for bullshit today. It had been eight days. That was already way too long and all he had to show for it were a bunch of dead ends and people he'd pissed off in his impatience. No, more bullshit was just out of the question.  
  
He stepped back, allowed the man he had pinned against the shed wall to breathe, and withdrew the pistol from the side of his head. "You've got to the count of three to start talking. One―"  
  
"Emanuel!"  
  
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"

  
  
"Emanuel... His name is Emanuel."

 

 

End.

 

 

 

**Chapter IV: Penicillin Preview**

 

"Face your demons, Beelzebub. You've fallen for the very thing you were willing to Fall in opposition of."


End file.
